


Secret

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: Skirts [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fluff, Genderbending, I KNOW THE TITLE IS CLICHE I'M SORRY, One Shot, Singing, so this one has Lady!Q because I like this trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond finds out that Q has ordered a dress for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret

It’s darker than the inside of a dead man’s stomach and Bond is honestly surprised to hear faint singing. He’d thought to come and drop off his equipment after hours because then he’d be able to escape Q’s wrath, but it turns out the rumors are true; even on holidays, Q never leaves the office. Poor man must live here most of the year.

As Bond inches closer, he recognizes the tune, and rolls his eyes. Trust Q to sing songs from “Anastasia” on Christmas Eve.

Closer still. There’s a very faint glow around the edges of the door; the glass walls are completely opaque, quite a feat. Bond takes a moment to mentally congratulate everyone involved in the making of them. Maybe they can sell the patent for an obscene amount of money.

Even closer, and Bond can hear words to go with the tune.

“…holds me safe and warm, horses prance through a silver storm…”

Bond is at the door, and is surprised that it is open a bare sliver of a crack. He knocks softly, but the music is too loud. Shrugging, he pushes the door open just enough to peep in.

Q is singing, but he’s also dancing, holding a dress against himself—a dress? And is that a shipping box on his desk?

“Figures dancing gracefully,” Q sings loudly, draping the dress over the back of his chair and stripping off his jumper and tie, “Across my meeemoryyyy…”

Off with the shirt underneath, off with the—binder? A chest binder? Bond blinks, and jerks back, putting his back to the door as he feels himself blush. Bond doesn’t blush. Not confronted with a bare bosom, and never mind that it was Q and _he shouldn’t have breasts what the hell_ —

“Someone holds me safe and warm, horses prance through a silver storm—“

Bond gulps and peeps through again. Q has put on a bra, but now he—she—he is letting her—his—her trousers fall, and slipping on the dress. And now he—she—he is dancing again, beautifully, freely, skirt swirling around her—his—her knees.

“Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember, things my heart used to know, things it yearns to—“ Q suddenly catches sight of Bond staring at him, and stumbles, thrown off and—and terrified.

“Q—I didn’t mean—“

“How long have you been standing there?” Q cuts across him, voice suddenly higher and sharper than it’s ever been, and it’s not out of fear, though his—her—his face is ashen and her—his—her expression is still set to Mortal Terror.

Bond considers all answers in a fraction of a second. “Not long,” he lies, knowing the cameras will tell the truth when he’s gone. But he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know what’s going on. So he opens the door just a little, just enough that he can actually see the office. “What…”

Suddenly the terror drains away, replaced by a wash of resignation. “Well,” Q says softly in his new voice. “It was going to happen eventually.”

~~~\0/~~~

“Father said it was a social experiment. He dressed me as a girl the first seven years of my life, then switched me to his son. There were odd looks, but no one actually _said_ anything. _I_ wasn’t even sure. I was just a kid.”

They are sharing tea-and-whiskey, Bond leaning forward with his arms on his knees, Q in hi—her beautiful dress, slumped in a most unladylike fashion. Bond can’t help it now, he notices every detail of her body, like he would with an enemy or a possible lay; and that makes him distinctly uncomfortable.

Q doesn’t seem to notice, staring into her tea. “So I grew up a boy, until I was thirteen. For a while Father was concerned the experiment would fail, but I promised to bind up my chest and learn to use tampons and he calmed down. I wonder what Mother would have done, had she been around.” A deep drink of the concoction before she continued. “It doesn’t really matter, actually. I’m a man out of habit now, I suppose; it’s just bad luck that you caught me with my Christmas present. And now I suppose you’ll report me to M and I’ll be sacked,” she ended gloomily.

“Why would I do that?” Bond bursts out incredulously, and Q’s head snaps up. “This is _your_ secret. M doesn’t need to know. I might need encouragement to keep it from Moneypenny, though.”

“What encouragement?” Q demands warily, and Bond realizes how very ominous that must sound, especially to a woman. He stands carefully, slowly, and sets his mug on the desk. Then he holds out his hand.

“A dance.”

~~~\0/~~~

If anyone had looked in on the Quartermaster that night, they would have seen a man in a torn suit and a woman in a cocktail dress dancing something suspiciously like a tango, inappropriately enough, and both grinning like children.

“Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember, things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember… And a song someone sings…”

And maybe there was a kiss too.

“Once upon a December.”

But no one was there. And nobody saw.


End file.
